The Treatment Centre
by Ra-Ra-Crazy93
Summary: Modern AU. Anxious, compulsive and unmanageable, 15-year-old Hiccup is admitted into a residential treatment centre, one he is very determined to get out of. When he meets fellow resident Astrid, however, his priorities start to change. Hiccstrid, OOC, Angsty McAngstface. Now complete.
1. Stuck

**Hello!**

 **As someone who has experienced mental health problems, I find writing about them makes it easier to understand my own behaviour sometimes. I'm not sure if that's weird? Aha!**

 **Anyway, this is a multi-chapter AU Hiccstrid fic. I did try and keep it as if is Hiccup is saying it, in fact, I literally sat and watched Race to the Edge on Netflix to familiarise myself with how Hiccup/Jay Barcuhel would talk. However, I appreciate that it is still going to be somewhat OOC to make things fit. The story follows Hiccup's journal entries and there is some mild langauge and some trigger warnings involving: suicide, depression, substance abuse, alcoholism. Hiccup is also in heavy denial about his problems and talks in quite a derogatory fashion about mental health problems, and I want to make it very clear that these are not my own personal views on the matter.**

 **Please read and review! I'm not the best writer, but as I said, it helps me chill and it's all pretty fun!**

Week One.

So I'm stuck. I've spent seven days in this "treatment facility" (or prison, as I like to call it) and I don't really feel like I've been treated. I hadn't realised that every aspect of my behaviour had to be analysed, labelled and treated, silly me for not realising. If I've got to write in this stupid weekly journal, then I'm at least going to be honest.

My dad tried calling last night but I told the support staff that he can shove the phone and slammed the door in his face. He got angry at me and it got a bit messy, so now I am on some kind of lock-down punishment thing. It was only a glass I smashed, not an antique ornament. As if this place wasn't incriminating enough, I'm not allowed to leave the house unsupervised. I don't get why dad is calling me; after all, he was the one who wanted rid.

My dad is in charge of a lot of people and is quite important on the political scene. He always has time for the circle of decision-makers and for the party he fronts. Me? Nah. If I get any acknowledgment from my dad, it's a scowl and him telling me that I've messed up somewhere. He's telling me that I always make things difficult. Apparently, over the last few months, I have been particularly difficult, so I'm here.

So why am I here exactly? Well, its kind of a funny story. I don't actually remember any of it, but apparently, I went for a walk that ended up on a very high bridge, and I like the thrill of it so I climbed over the fence and felt myself dangle off for a few minutes. Unfortunately, as I was hanging out, I got spotted and before I knew it, there was an entire squad of police officers and paramedics trying to coax me down, which ended up in a meltdown of sorts, which ended up with me being taken to the hospital. I don't remember the details because I was high at the time.

Once the drugs had worn off, I thought I could go home. Not so. Nope, I had to undergo a psychiatric assessment. What a waste of time. If I have one more professional ask me if I am suicidal, I'll make them wish they never asked me. They're never satisfied with my answer. I always get some skeptical look, as if I am trying to mask some great anguish. I'm not one of those abuse-survivor kids or those special needs kids who live perpetually off-kilter. I'm just Hiccup, and I'm pretty normal.

When I knew I was coming here, after a solemn sit-down chat with my father and about four different mental health "professionals", I vowed to myself that I would get out a soon as humanly possible and get myself emancipated. They said I would probably be staying for around six months. There is no way in hell I am staying here for six months. Everyone is so fake. They took me to my room and introduced themselves like an intro to some Saturday morning cartoon. "I'm Stacey! I'm Tom! I'm Alice!". I don't care.

I thought I could spend the weekend getting used to the change, but no, therapy started literally the second morning. They made me get out of bed before 9 which is ridiculous for a Saturday. When I complained, they asked me what I would usually do on a Saturday, to which I told them that I'd spend my Friday night getting wasted with friends. Normally I would get a horrified reaction. "How could you?! You're only fifteen?!". These people literally didn't care. I had a weird feeling of disappointment, like as if I had failed to get a response.

My therapist, David, is okay, I guess. He's so nosy though. He says I don't acknowledge that I have things wrong with me and that I needed to start. I had gotten a diagnosis-well, a few-but I wasn't really all that bothered about hearing about them. They were just labels, a crutch for some people so they get out of the fact that they're actually terrible people. See like, I know I am a terrible person. I don't need a diagnosis of some convoluted mental health problem to tell me that.

The support staff here are just annoying. They talk so much about "you have choices", but you don't. You literally don't. I'm not allowed to go off on walks until I have earned the "trust" of the staff, even though I know full well that walking alone helps when I'm feeling down. I'm already sick of being treated like as if I am a glass object that might shatter if I get hurt. I'm not a child.

The other people here must be so miserable really. Some of them act annoyingly happy-go-lucky. My roommate, Fishlegs, just talks to me about ridiculous stuff that I couldn't care less about. And then there's Astrid. She's incredibly dismissive but at least she isn't fake. She's herself, and I admire her for that.

So yeah. My first week was boring. It's a routine of tedium. Wake up early, tutoring in the morning, counseling after lunch, activities, dinner, and bed. I'm thinking of sneaking out and going to some insane party somewhere. I miss having the scent of tobacco and cheap cider in my life. The tutoring annoys me because it's so easy. I don't actually care about writing an essay on Viking history, I just want to read my own books and draw, because that's all I'm good at. I asked if art was on the curriculum, but they just told me to talk to David. It's a specialist thing apparently.

Yesterday was a crappy day. My tutor berated me over something inane, basically saying that I wouldn't amount to anything if I didn't do the work. David kept asking more about my family life. He literally has 42 pages of notes from the social worker about my family life, my "case" is quite extensive, apparently. All I wanted to do was go upstairs and be alone, but oh no, I had group activities to participate in and then dad called. I don't remember the last time I felt as angry as I did last night. There's a lot of bruising on my left hand where I punched the wall several times in the room I was detained in, so I guess that's the consequence.

My plan of acting normal has pretty much failed already. All I know is that I don't want to be here.


	2. Demons

**Hello lovelies!**

 **I've done another update pretty fast, but I'm not sure when I'll put up another. Hopefully very soon! Thank you to everyone who has liked and followed the story so far! I promise the Hiccstrid will start soon, but this is going to be a bit of a slow-burner; Hiccup has a lot to learn. Just for a trigger warning; implied rape. Implied, but its there...OOC Hiccup has had a vile few years prior to this fic.**

Week Two

I've been doing better I guess? This week hasn't been as bad as the first. David said that it was likely that I had gotten overwhelmed by the situation at hand and that was simply a part of my…condition. I tend to go into a mental block when I freak out the way I did, and he said that it required investigation or whatever. I've had anger management before, but I got thrown out for being uncooperative. It would have helped if they weren't so insular in how they thought. They treated me like some thug who was acting up for the attention, and I'm not one of them.

David had me apologise to the other staff members and residents for my behaviour. Fishlegs tried to hug me but I hate being touched by people, its too much affection and stuff and its sickening. I think I may have awkwardly patted his back as he tried to suffocate me. We're completely opposite in posture and size and so the dissonance between us in that embrace came on very strongly.

Astrid finally spoke to me. She's usually quiet and pissed off, so it was a bit surprising when she complimented me on my drawing. I had just been downstairs sketching in my very battered notebook; today I was drawing a cat lying on top of a bridge, stretching its arms out as it napped. A lot of my sketches are of bridges; for some reason, I find them weirdly appealing. I love the structure and architecture and all the work put into them, and some of the designs are so intricate. I thought about becoming an architect for a while, but there's no way my grades will ever be good enough to study it, so I let go of that dream.

Astrid and I spent a while just chatting. She always looked super curious and I found her strangely easy to talk to. Still, though, the conversation was very one-sided. She told me about her eating disorder and her anxiety, about her helicopter parents trying to dictate every aspect of her life, but then she changed the subject quickly and told me about her friends and school and her ponies too. She was leaving the centre soon, she said, within the next month, and her dad was buying her a car to celebrate. I asked how long she had to wait to get out, and she told me that she had been stuck here for eight months.

She told me that she accepted that she was ill. I told her that I was just going through and phase and that I wasn't in danger of anything bad. When I told her that, she frowned, told me that I would have to learn to accept it and walked away in a huff. I couldn't really get what I had said to offend her, but its what happens to everyone in my life; they try to get to know me, I push them away, and they don't come back.

I couldn't stop thinking about her all night though. Her golden blonde hair in a neat braid, her red tank top, and leather mini skirt. She was pretty. I'd never really felt this kind of attraction before. My mind divulged into more sordid thoughts. I know sex is supposed to be about attraction, but I've slept with some bad people and its kind of ruined things. Like that guy I met in the bar. I suppose it was my own fault for being somewhere I shouldn't be at fourteen. That night has pretty much been blocked out of my mind; I just really hope David doesn't bring it up.

Sometimes I think about the happier times, like when mother and I would go to theme parks together and take me on the rollercoasters. I haven't seen her for five years though; she got remarried and moved away, and dad refused to pay money for the flight. I have a baby sister that I've never even met, but I've seen the photos and she looks kinda cute. She has my auburn hair and green eyes, but her face isn't as ugly as mine.

Fishlegs has nightmares a lot, and I don't usually sleep too well, so the insomnia was fine by me. On Wednesday though, David announced that I will be starting a new, stronger medication the following Monday. One of the side effects is extreme drowsiness, and I'm not too impressed with the prospect of not being able to have my time at night alone. I like it at night because I can focus; I read faster, draw better, and feel more alive. I know that the meds last time made me feel sick, but dad said it was because I was drinking. They took me off them though because I overdosed and ended up in hospital. I was just experimenting really.

David has moved away from the family stuff and talking about mother and is now asking what kind of substances I am taking. The guy that gives me the drugs doesn't know that I'm here and I owe him money, so for his own sanity, I refused to tell him how I got hold of the weed and the mescaline. He lectures me for a bit about the dangers of what I am doing but continues to try and pry information. He asked me why I took them, and I said it was because it was fun. The truth was that I started taking them because I needed an identity, and all the other kids rejected me. He asks me if anything bad had happened to me whilst taking them, and I could feel the rage burning inside me at the bluntness of the question. He sensed something was amiss and decided to end the session, promising that he would pick my brain on the subject another time.

I'm not sure how I look when I'm mad. Apparently, I go all red and I quietly seethe. I never used to be so angry and violent. They used to say I was such a sweet, quiet child, not a snarky, angry thug. My image doesn't really work with thuggery anyway. I was too small and skinny and weak to be a fighter.

I'm too small and skinny and weak to fight off my demons.


	3. Nightmare

**Hello all!**

 **Thank you for the reviews, likes and follows, it's so appreciated! I never thought anyone would bother reading my random little drabbles, let alone enjoy them, so thank you all again!**

 **This one is super angsty, because that it pretty much where my headspace was last night. I'm surprised with how fast I am writing this and I want to get as many chapters as I can because I'm scared I'm going to crash and burn. The chapter after won't be so depressing. Hiccup's thought processes are diminished somewhat and I want that to come across, basically, so not everything he says is the exact truth. He's an unreliable narrator, and I want to reveal the full extent of the problem but in a gradual way.**

 **Even though I have mental health problems and also work with people who have them, including the condition that I've written Hiccup as having, I don't profess to be a psychologist or an expert, so I'm sorry if I've got anything incorrect. I'm trying for substance over accuracy, but I appreciate that accurate representation is important to a lot of people.**

 **Trigger warnings: suicide, rape, eating disorders, depression.**

Week Three

This week I just feel awful and I'm in absolutely no mood to write in here, but I've been told it is for my own good so there you go.

These meds are killing me. They don't work, for one. Each day is as miserable and difficult to manage as the last. Secondly, I feel as sick as a dog. All the food suddenly looks repulsive, my head is constantly throbbing, and I'm exhausted all the time. All of my dreams are lucid and frightening, so sleep is starting to become the enemy, and there literally isn't an in-between. I feel like I'm in a figurative prison as well as a literal one.

David says I need to keep taking them, as they can take up to six weeks to kick in. I don't feel like I'm going to last for six weeks. I feel like hanging myself in a closet, and I was under the impression that they were supposed to have the opposite effect.

Fishlegs keeps telling me that I'm freaking out in my sleep a lot, tossing and turning and crying out. Being told that made me feel very vulnerable, so now I battle sleep, making myself stay awake even though its torture. On my last glance at the mirror, I resembled a zombie; pale skin, big purple bags under my eyes and I look as if I've lost about 10lbs as well. I don't want to eat, I don't want to get out of bed, I don't want to do any stupid activities and I don't want to talk.

Thursday morning was the worst. I couldn't move. I had had no sleep for about 40 hours and my head felt like it was going to explode. No amount of coaxing and cajoling from the staff was going to make any difference. I just wanted to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and block out every kind of stimuli around me. I somehow managed to come downstairs for dinner in my dazed, drugged up state, but I just picked at the fish and potatoes they gave us. The staff told me that I couldn't leave until I had eaten a bit of food as they were concerned that I hadn't eaten in several days. I couldn't remember the last time I stomached a full meal. I cooperated though because I don't want "eating disorder" on the list of the conditions I am supposedly afflicted with. As soon as I went up to bed, I succumbed to sleep and had the most horrific dream.

In my dream, I was chained naked to the basement wall and a man came in with a shotgun. I couldn't see his face, but his voice was demonic and frightening, the same voice that had attacked me last year. He laughed at how weak he thought I was, and it was then I realised that my parents and my sister were in the room too. One by one, he shot them in the head, the blood splattering everywhere and screaming echoing the room, and then he finally turned on me. I woke up to find one of the staff at my bed, gripping my hand. Looking up, a frightened Fishlegs was starting at me, quivering in fear. Apparently, I had been very distressed, and this had upset him so much he went to get help. I was too exhausted to be embarrassed or ashamed though. I just wanted things to end.

David told me that he's very concerned about my mental state. Things only started getting bad when people started prying. Every day in therapy has ended in me getting angry and frustrated. I punched another wall on Wednesday and the close monitoring is continuing. I just want them to leave me alone and let me deal with it. Am I really that weak?

Astrid has been giving me pitying looks. I discovered, though, that she had found my notes and got caught, and so she was under lockdown too for looking at confidential documents. In the dead of night when I fight sleep, I often think about how much she confuses me. Why does she care? Does she want to know exactly what's wrong with me so maybe she can feel some kind of connection? Is she trying to understand me better? People have told me before that I am a conundrum and I am not easy to understand, but why is she trying? And more to the point, why do I care about her?

She has such long hair. She braids it in such an intricate way, and its never messy. I'm trying to grow my hair out but it just falls flat as a pancake on my forehead and I look like some kind of deranged emo. I like the idea of looking tough and disheveled, with long hair and muscles. Astrid's hair, though, it's the kind I would play with, the locks between my fingers as she rests on my shoulder. Maybe she can teach me to be tougher, and happier, and better at things.

I think about what she said to me about having to accept that I have issues. I'm not ready to accept them. The thought makes me cringe because they're not going to stop, they're not going to go away. No amount of medicine is going to change the fact that my head is messed up. Mental illness isn't just like a broken leg. It persists and eats away at every happy thought and feeling. I don't know how some people here can live with themselves.

But she accepts it. She's happy to live with the problems and move on. I think we're here to be rehabilitated. That seems like such a difficult and unrealistic prospect. Can we actually change? Do things really get better? I have lost hope in things ever improving. So much has changed in the name of improvement; moving schools, changing therapists, changing medication…and this is the worst one yet. Why is it so strong and heavy? Do they think that I'm that in need of something that literally makes me unwell?

I get tired of pretending to be normal. I want to be one of those kids with good grades and friends that aren't drug dealers, who have clean clothes and nice hair, and parents who are happy. Astrid seems so lucky on the surface. Her family are rich and happy and together. But then again, I think the guilt would kill me. The expectations would be suffocating. At least my dad doesn't expect A's across the board and for a macho sports star, although I'm sure he wouldn't mind. She's just like me. My whole life is a façade but it's all I have.


	4. Dogs

**Hello!**

 **Once again thank you all for the support and reviews and whatnot! Not much to really say tonight, other than Valentines has been lovely with my significant other. We had pizza and watched** ** _Sing!_** **which I really liked! Might muster the energy to write a one-shot about it tomorrow! This chapter is a bit happier than the last, I'm sorry the Hiccstrid is slow burning but they can't just be all magnetic, yano? ;)**

 **Trigger warnings: mentions of suicide, self-harm, depression as usual, drug abuse and difficulty family matters.**

Week Four

I'm still ill but at least some good things happened this week. I got to go out for a walk and I agreed to speak with my dad. I had a meeting with a psychiatrist who decided to reduce the dose of my medication as the side effects were apparently some of the most severe he had seen. I'm still suffering from a pounding head and low moods, but it isn't quite as debilitating as before.

David said that in the previous week, I had slammed doors, punched walls, refused to eat, sworn at staff repeatedly, tried to run away twice, slashed my wrist with some broken glass, and spent an entire day bedbound. I block out a lot of stuff so the full extent was lost on me. I'm not sure whether he was trying to just make me feel bad though and exaggerated.

Even if that is what happened, I'm not as damaged as some of the other kids here. Everyone else has had it worse than me. They've had proper suicide attempts and been sectioned in psychiatric units, and I've not had that. My dad would always say that as a threat, that they'll section me, and I will be locked up. He said that psychiatric units were bad places for crazy people and that I would be one of them if I didn't get my act together, so I would be good for a few days. I just wanted to have fun though and getting high was fun.

None of my friends have called me, which hurts. We were supposed to be a team that would stick together. They're all tough guys and I was excited when they let me be one of them. They would buy me drink and drugs and we would hang out together late at night. It felt good to know that all the people that bullied me were probably stuck at home with their boring lives and their boring crap on the TV, and I was high as a kite with people who care about me. I still hope they care. I'm looking forward to hitting the town with them again, tasting that special brew again. We aren't allowed to drink here, or anything. Not even a smoke. Those drugs were my crutch; I know that it wasn't healthy, but it was my way of dealing with things and these people don't respect that.

I went for a walk with one of the support staff on Tuesday evening. It was recommended by David that getting me out of the house for a bit could help improve my health. It was standard practice to go for walks and outings, but due to my unpredictable behaviour, they had wanted me to get used to the house and the routine first. The house is actually very nice, with a big garden and lots of space to roam, but it was still suffocating. As soon as I was able to take that first step out of the gate, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.

We walked for about an hour, although I could have gone out longer. The staff member, Julie, said it was the first time she had seen me smile since she had met me and awkwardly gushed for a bit. I was happier though. Being around nature, feeling the wind in my hair, watching couples have picnics and dog walkers trail through the park. Julie and I chatted for a bit as we walked. She had three dogs and would regularly frequent the area with them. I told her that I didn't have any pets and wasn't allowed any. She replied that she thought having a pet would be a good thing and it is something that could be discussed when I get discharged. She said _when_ and not _if_ , the wording I appreciated.

When we got in, I got to work, sketching a family of dogs on a hilltop. The dogs were all different; one with shiny black fur, one with scraggly grey fur, and another pristine looking blond poodle. I wanted them to be harmonious despite their differences in appearance. We aren't all so different after all.

I thought about the things that David and I had discussed in depth one day, about my childhood. He asked if it had been happy. I said that it had been kind of happy, but also kind of crazy too. I was a bit of an awkward child; I just liked my own space and doing things my own way, and I would daydream chronically. My parents and I would paint this picture of this loving, happy family. There's a photo of me aged 7 with both of my parents on the beach, and we're all smiling and holding ice creams. It would only be a year later when my mother left dad after a particularly violent argument. I didn't think it really affected me at the time. There was all the reassurance that I would still see them equally and that they both loved me very much. I lived with mother first, but she had no job and struggled with her health, so it was tough. She would let me go days wearing the same clothes and eating the same three items of food, and my bedroom was a futon on the kitchen floor because there was only one bedroom in the flat we lived in. The flat was rat infested and mother did no cleaning. It wasn't long before social services got wind and I ended up back at dads.

Then she left. She met some new guy online that was going to "change her life" and flew away to meet him. She would call me a lot, but over time, she stopped calling, and I stopped thinking about her. She has a new family now and a daughter that she loves very much. Who am I to stop that? The more I think about, the less angry I feel. She wasn't abusive, which is what my dad said about her. She just needed to be away from it. Dad didn't understand.

David encouraged me to call my dad, so I did. The conversation was quite laboured and silent, but he asked how I was doing. He talked about how well work was going and how Gobber, a family friend, was quite concerned for me. So concerned he hasn't bothered coming to see me. Dad told me that I needed to work hard and make the most of my time away. He made it sound like I was in some fun holiday camp, not an EBD facility or whatever was the official term. Even so, I'm glad I spoke to him. David was quite supportive of the endeavour at least.

I hung out with Astrid last night, perched on her bed watching a movie. Technically speaking, the girls and boys aren't supposed to be in each other's rooms, but nobody really bats an eyelid to that rule on the precedent that there are bigger issues at hand. I didn't find the romcom we were watching all that entertaining, but she was giggling away softly and at one point grabbed my arm during a particularly emotional scene. Her skin is so soft. No amount of physical exercise has worn her down physically.

Her eyes are sparkling blue like the sea. They have me enchanted. She probably thought I was having some kind of an aneurysm with the way I was looking at her. I remind myself that she's just someone to talk to. She isn't my friend, and we certainly aren't romantic. I'm not here to make any friends, although maybe making some new friends would do me good.

Where are my friends? They just don't bother coming to see me? Maybe I wasn't good enough for them. Maybe I'm not the person to get high with; after all, at least they can hold it together. I end up doing so much crazy stuff and I end up worrying that I'm not real. Maybe Astrid will come out with me when we get out, and she'll get high and crazy too. We could climb that skyscraper, something I tried doing before. The thrill of it would be amazing, and she looks like a thrill seeker. She certainly likes having fun, but I want more fun than just a silly romcom.

I want to have fun, get high and get out of here.


	5. Dragons

**Hello again!**

 **Ugh I'm back at uni tomorrow for another day of learning! I thought I would write this about Hiccup's schooling, and also a bit of Hiccstrid too. Only a short one today, same triggers apply. :)**

Week Five

So the coolest thing happened this week. I got to go on my first outing into town since I've been here, which is quite a big deal, and I got to go with Astrid and Julie. I knew Julie would just chill out and have coffee somewhere though, as she's not really into the whole "intruding on teens" kind of thing. She says she does this job because it makes her feel happy to see people get better. She told me that she's seen dozens of people go back into normal lives. People like me.

She told us that she would be ringing every half an hour, and that she would be staying in the same place and that we weren't to leave the vicinity of the town. They seemed like very imposing conditions, but any taste of freedom was better than none at all. Astrid and I trawled through the mall first; dad had sent me some money if I wanted anything, but nothing in the glitzy clothes shops seemed to appeal to me. Then something caught Astrid's eye; it was a silky sky blue scarf with a large dragons eye embroidered onto it, with gold stitching that shimmered in the bright lights of the store. She gasped when she picked it up, feeling the soft material between her fingers, and quickly rushed to the counter to buy it. It looked good on her.

Astrid loves dragons. I've been working on a drawing for her, one of a big blue dragon protecting a nest of eggs. Suddenly remembering the sketch, I decided to go to the art shop and buy some coloured ink with the money. I haven't quite finished it yet, but I hope she likes it. She tells me about how flying on a dragon must feel like skydiving or something. I told her it probably feels more like an insanely high rollercoaster, teetering on the edge with fear and adrenaline. We decided that we should go to a theme park sometime.

It was a sunny day, and Astrid looked like she was enjoying herself. She was wearing her hair in her trademark braid and bangs but wearing a plaid red dress and dolly shoes instead of her usual tomboyish attire. She looked like she had made the effort, whereas I just threw on my favourite hoodie and went out scruffy as usual. There was the whole feeling of insecurity that came with it, but I don't think she noticed.

After our wander around the shops, we grabbed a burger before meeting up with Julie again. She made a joke about us going for a secret date, to which we both laughed nervously. There was no date because relationships aren't allowed at the house whilst we are in treatment. And besides, its Astrid Hofferson, beautiful and talented. There is no way she would want someone like me, scrawny and awkward…crazy. No. I don't fancy her either. She's just a friend, maybe the first real friend I've had since childhood. I hope she stays a friend because I already feel scared she's going to abandon me the minute she leaves the house, which by all accounts will be soon.

How do you know whether someone is a real friend? It seems so difficult to differentiate between a friend and an acquaintance sometimes. David keeps telling me that my friends who I hung around with weren't real friends, so who am I to trust? How can I even trust what he is saying?

The meds are still making me feel a bit crazy, but they're not as bad as they were. I've done well this week; no walls have been punched. I still feel uncomfortable though. Fishlegs is getting discharged next week and he was having a big celebration. Apparently, its custom for us all to get together and bake a cake and whatnot whenever a resident leaves. There's twelve of us altogether, and once someone goes, they're replaced by another person. This will mean me having a new roommate in a couple of weeks.

I wonder who I'll get? David told me that everyone they admit here has similar conditions and are of similar ages, but admitted that it could be someone very different personality wise. He explained that this home was experimental, and as such, not just anyone could be referred. Everyone who comes here needs to benefit from the environment, he said. I feel like this environment is painfully contrived, but I accept that its an ideal alternative to a psychiatric unit. I did a lot of research on some of the horror stories from them, and I know it was a long time ago when all of the crazy therapies were administered, but it still sounds like a prison to me.

David asked me about how I found school. I have had a difficult relationship with the place, or places, considering I have moved a few times. The work has always been easy for me, it's just getting there and staying there I had problems with. It always felt like hell, being a classroom with lots of loud, chatty, annoying and imposing kids. I felt like I was going to suffocate. My teachers often said they were concerned by lack of interaction with anyone and suggested to my dad that they thought I was autistic. Of all the things I will eventually get diagnosed with, that one isn't on the list though. Its kind of ironic because the list is long enough and an extra label probably wouldn't make too much of a difference, and at least it would make me sound like some genius savant or whatever it is nowadays.

I started truanting school when I was about 11. My dad would drop me off and I would just sneak off into town and hang out on my own all day, or I'd sit in the park and draw with the nature around me. I was too stupid to think that they wouldn't call my dad about why I wasn't turning up. After this came out to him and I ended up grounded, he started physically taking me to school, where I would last a lesson before running off. Every time I got near the place, a big wall of panic and insecurity just clouded my vision and every urge in my body told me to run. The school was a place for pressure and bullying and unnecessary stress.

After dragging me in didn't work, I went to a new school to start over, but it just made things worse. So they started trying to coax me into a one-to-one class to see how I coped, but the school decided that I wasn't "special needs" enough for that and told me, point blank, that they expected me to be in class everyday on time. This went exactly how one would expect, and so I got referred to what seemed like a million educational psychologists who were trying to find a million labels as to why I wouldn't go to school. I wish they would just let me be home-schooled or something, but dad sat me down and said that there was no way that could happen with his job, nor could he afford to have a tutor come in every day. So the routine continued; dad drags me in, the school tries to make me stay, I find every possible way to escape as I'm attempting to get decent grades.

David asked if something had happened to make me so scared of school. I just said that it was one more place where I felt like a square peg. Honestly, other than the bullying I got for being short and bookish, there was nothing that made me scared about it that I could put my finger on. I guess I just associate it with punishment and fear.

Honestly, I can't believe that I'm talking about this. I haven't spoken about any of this for so long. I think writing it all down helps in a way because it's for my own gratification. They keep telling me its okay to be angry or scared and stuff. I'm going to have to find something to get excited about though.

Next week, I'm going to call my mother. I haven't spoken to her in years, so I'm not expecting it to go well, but I can't pretend she doesn't exist forever.


	6. Friends

**It's happened!**

 **I've hit the writer's block D:.**

 **I tried to power through this chapter and made some stuff happen/going to happen though, so hopefully, the writer's block will be dead soon. It's been a busy weekend though, I went away with the OH so that was all well and dandy! Once again, please read, review, critique, whatever. Also, if anyone is interested, I am thinking of starting a new HTTYD/ROTG crossover fic as soon as I've finished this one, maybe sooner, so I'm prepping that. I think this fic will go on for about 12 chapters...I've not really got much planned but I'm wary of it dragging and outstaying its welcome.**

Week six

My talk with the mother…it didn't go so well. I mean, at least she seemed happy to hear from me to begin with, but when she asked me what was happening with my life…well, she wasn't impressed to discover that I was here. Then she started a rant about dad, saying that she should have been kept informed, which I thought was somewhat ironic seeing as it wouldn't have taken her a lot of effort to pick up the phone and talk to me herself. She told me though that she wasn't surprised because there's a long history of mental health problems in our family. She said that she was even suffering herself and that things were very difficult for her. She wouldn't tell me about her problems though, not even for my own reassurance or gratification.

I wanted to ask mother about my little sister, Katie. She's three now. She pretty much ignored me when I asked about her though. "This is about you", she said. It didn't feel about me; it felt like her telling me false truths. The conversation was very awkward, but at this point, I don't really expect anything less. I hung up after ten minutes. David said it was a good start and that he was proud of me for ringing her. It felt nice, being told that someone was proud of me.

David has been asking less about my childhood, and more about the time mother left. He's been pressing on this topic for a while and today I caved. It was my ninth birthday when the social worker took me from her house as she was taken away. I wasn't sure what had really happened, but I later learned that she had been charged with neglect and that the flat was in squalid condition. She had been out drinking every night with her friends after breaking up with dad and leaving me with no food to eat and in dirty clothes. For some reason, I can hardly remember a thing from that flat, I just remember that it was messy. David said it was likely that I was repressing the memories, but for what reasons are unclear.

I was allowed to see my mother once a month with supervision from my dad, who at this point was doing his best to be father of the year. He was always taking me out for dinner, taking me to the park, that kind of thing. She always acted so happy to see me and gave me suffocating hugs. One day, she started talking about a new boyfriend, and this made me feel pretty uneasy, given that I was nine and finding things difficult to process. I was already in therapy at this point, the first of many people probing my mind. Things weren't exactly going to get much better.

One day, not long after I turned ten, she didn't turn up to her visit with me. Dad sat me down that night and told me that she had moved away to be with her new husband that she had married in secret. He said that she didn't know how to tell me, and she didn't want to cause more disruption in my life, so that was that. Needless to say, I didn't deal with this kind of rejection particularly well.

I remember one afternoon after I had run away from school again, I went into a café and watched the world go by for a few hours. So many couples in love, holding hands, drinking coffee together. 3pm came around and there were families, proper ones with both parents, holding the hands of their perfect children, happily smiling and bouncing up and down about their day at school. I don't think I ever really had that, and if I did, it didn't feel genuine. Any sense of familial happiness felt like it happened millions of years ago.

My week has been spent in some kind of prison of emotional turmoil. The meds are still taking their time to kick in, but for the first time, I felt some kind of a calm inside me. Every time the calm threatened to linger for too long, though, the pills wore off and the thunderstorm came back. Sleep has been easier, at least, and with Fishlegs gone, its been quiet in my room. All of his décor has gone down, and now the room is sparsely decorated. I like it like that. Astrid suggested that I put some drawings up on the walls to give it a splash of detail, but I'm not sure if my drawings are really that interesting to look at. Speaking of which, I still haven't finished her dragon yet because I'm so frightened of ruining it.

Today though, I learned the name of my new roommate: Dagur. I have no idea what to expect from him, but hopefully, he isn't too loud and intrusive. I wonder what he likes to do, and what he's done to get himself here? I wonder whether he's going to like me…

Astrid told me that every new housemate is a cause for stress for everyone. Everyone gets worked up and nervous because they don't know what to expect. I've realised that perhaps I wasn't the easiest person to manage and that the other people were quite frightened of my behaviour. I haven't really spoken to anyone else but her, but it's coming up to two months since I was admitted, and she has suggested that it would be a good time to make some friends. The people here, she says, are the best kind of friends because they understand what you're going through.

I went downstairs one evening and got talking to a few other people my age. I spoke to Heather on Wednesday, a girl who is close to Astrid. She is on some of the same meds as me and laughed about the thunderstorm and calm conflict that she also dealt with. Astrid was right, these people did understand. Heather is kind of cute, a lot like Astrid in personality but with long thick black hair and piercing eyes. I would be scared to get on the wrong side of her. I also chatted with a big thuggish looking guy called Snotlout, who was a bit too intimidating and dim for my liking. I reminded myself that I had to be civil and understand his differences, and we got involved in a conversation about fantasy movies.

There is a sense of warmness to this place that I hadn't felt before, a feeling of being surrounded by like-minded people. Its made me realise that I don't have to go through this alone.


	7. Brother

**Heyyy**

 **Ugh I've been so ill these past few days, and I've missed uni and its all off kilter! On the bright side, I saw a cat today at work that look just like Toothless, I mean, legit green eyes and black fur. It was the cutest ball of fluff I have ever seen and I wanted to take it home so bad.**

 **This chapter is filler, I'm sorry! I'm not too sure what I'm going to do with Dagur, but I felt like he'd be a cool character to bring in. I always want to clarify that I don't hate Fishlegs, even though I conveniently got rid of him. Thank you to all that have read and reviewed so far, you're all amazing. Usual triggers apply.**

Week seven

Dagur is….interesting…

He literally turned up one day after my tutoring, just as I was ready to crash into bed and punch a pillow or something. It had been a particularly long day and I didn't expect to just go in and see some guy stood there by my bed, but here he was, and David was there too. He had us both shake hands and greet each other, and Dagur isn't a small guy. He has crazy muscles and a big scar across his face; I guess I could ask him where he got it from, but I guess that would be kind of rude.

Dagur would not stop talking all evening. He was energetic and hyperactive and kept calling me "brother". I guess that was supposed to be affectionate? I spent my night trying to work out his damage. ADHD? Probably. Bipolar? Again, probably. Anxiety? Hard to tell. Can be masked easily. I should know. When he finally settled, I laid on my back for a bit and contemplated my surroundings. My meds had finally kicked in, and things felt less foggy and more…normal? But I was still getting used to it. Being able to function after so long felt so strange, so foreign.

My attention diverts to the window more often that I would like. Despite this place being somewhere that's supposed to make me better, the thought of running away and escaping crosses my mind more than I would like. Logically, it wouldn't be all that difficult. This isn't a high security unit, despite what they have us think. But I know that if I got caught, I would be straight in somewhere high security. Or would I? Perhaps I'm just paranoid. I feel like there's some imaginary guards patrolling the place, and rabid dogs there to catch me from using stealth tactics in my escape. The drop from the window is about five metres, enough to break bones. If I land correctly though, I would be okay, right?

Why do I actually want to escape? I'm struggling to answer that question myself. I think its just urges, impulses, and god knows that I'm impulsive. I keep getting told that if I actually engaged my brain and made informed decisions, I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in now. I think in the context of the discussion, it was some kind of backhanded compliment. The truth is that I try to engage my brain. I plan carefully what I'm going to do and say, like rehearsing a script where all the details are trickling away like a sieve in my head. The minute I get to said situation, I stutter and stumble over my words and embarrass myself. If I work on impulse though, at least its immediately gratifying. It feels genuine, like I'm not trying to cover aspects of my life and personality up. I came to own the fact that I was an impulsive mess.

I feel like telling Astrid that I've been thinking of her a lot lately, but that would be impulsive too, and not to mention stupid. The nagging doubt in my mind constantly sends me the same message I receive every time I feel as if I'm going to get close to someone. _They're going to hurt you, use you, leave you._

I finished the picture I was doing for her and left it on her bed for her to find, and I was delighted to discover that she had loved it. Astrid doesn't usually smile, but she smiled when she saw me the next day for breakfast. She bragged a little about my work, which made me nervous, but it was cute. She was completely cute, and perfect. I didn't say anything at all that morning, just watched as she twisted her immaculate hair with her fingers and waved her bony arms over the table in an exaggerated fashion. She was telling us a widely exaggerated story about a friend who got stood up on a date or something, I wasn't really paying attention to the details.

I feel like I'm starting to fit in with the crowd, like I guess this was what having a clique of friends was about. Except that they're not really my friends, I'm probably not going to see them out of here. David said that when I left, I wouldn't be going back to the high school that I never actually turned up to anymore. My dad has been talking about enrolling me into a boarding school, but I don't want that. Even though I never turned up to school, this whole situation still bothers me. I don't like all the change, it's too weird for my head to get around.

Astrid told me that she had been to a boarding school somewhere in the countryside, where they had ponies and a farm to take care of the animals. She had been so, so popular, the netball champion and an A grade student. She said that boarding school life was so disconnected from everything and there was so much pressure to be something you're not. There's the opportunity but then there's deprivation of any kind of personality and thoughts and feelings. I couldn't be somewhere where I wouldn't be able to express myself somehow. I think that's where we connect; we're two strangers in a strange land, unsure how to navigate the structures of our society.

I feel nervous now, like she's throwing me smiles and glints of happiness. I haven't really felt…happy in so long. I've had good moments and good times, albeit sparingly, but I don't remember the last time I truly felt happy. Is it where you feel like your troubles have lifted? Or is that just some heavy-duty stress relief? The thing is though is that I think Dagur has caught onto the fact that I have a thing for Astrid, a thing I can't really explain. He keeps winking every time I mention her in conversation. I have a horrible feeling that he's told David, and if so, I'm going to find out about it pretty soon. Things can only get better though, right?


	8. Talk

**Heyy!**

 **Who spent her week having a long-ass sick-day, binge-watching** ** _Man Seeking Woman_** **and** ** _Being Human?_** **This girl! I've not left the house in three days, and its snowed quite heavy in the UK where I'm at so even more excuse not to leave the house! :D Seriously, I'm such a stay at home person, I'll take pizza and Sims under a blanket over a night out any day.**

 **Anyway, the story. BIG rape trigger guys in this one, be warned. It's not overly graphic, but its pretty much the focus of the chapter and it's quite an important part of documenting Hiccup's series of very unfortunate life events. If this isn't your cup of tea and you want to stop reading, I will completely understand. Otherwise, please read and review, everyone who's reviewed has been so lovely and positive and I'm happy that you guys are following this!**

Week Eight

Well I'm busted.

The therapy session with David focused on relationships. As soon as he mentioned it, I knew that Dagur had tattled. I told David straight up that I thought that Dagur had tattled, but David didn't respond to this accusation at all; instead, he smiled a bit and put his notepad down, as if he was about to tell me a story with some kind of hidden message.

He said that for many people my age, relationships are a natural part of growing up. It was normal to have a girlfriend, or boyfriend if I preferred. His voice made some kind of trajectory upwards at the boyfriend bit. I'm not actually gay, but because I was sleeping around a lot for the drugs, people assume that I am. It's the assumptions that bother me. The small, shy guy with the longish hair can't possibly be straight. I also hate when people immediately flower their statement with "not that there's anything wrong with that" as if they were trying to take back what they said in some self-indulgent fashion. It grinds my gears. I am irrationally bothered.

David reiterated that relationships were not the priority right now, and that my mental health and well-being needed to be stable first before putting emotional investment in another person can be considered. I pointed out, hypothetically, that people couldn't help if they fell in love, and that restricting that would be controlling their emotions. David nodded, "exactly, taking control of your emotions is what you've come here to learn".

Then he asked me about the kind of romantic interactions I had experienced before. This to me felt like quite a personal question, but in the past two months, I have learned that David can be quite unrelenting and that bottling things up don't actually do much good. So I told him everything. Almost.

All the guys talked about sleeping around, and when you're fourteen and curious, it became something of a game. I was out with the boys, popping some pills and swigging them with a cider, when one of the guys came onto me. He was 19, and I was completely out of it and honestly craving the affection from someone. I just let it happen. The next morning felt cold, curled up naked in his bed, blood on my thighs, no doubt my dad worrying sick about where I was. But I went back and started picking up some women too. They were all older, all probably just laughing at my expense. I was just some skinny, inexperienced kid with no kind of masculinity to flaunt.

Everytime I slept with someone, I got drunk and/or high. It usually blocked out the pain, took away the sick taste and saved me from the cold of the night. Every single time felt cold and clinical, but it felt fun. I didn't really enjoy the sexual side of it; I liked the risk and the prospect of drugs and money at the end of it. It was just another way to spend my time when my days were filled with boredom and depression. I got lucky for so long, never feeling like I was in danger; after all, my friends were usually about to save me from any kind of danger. At least I thought so.

I stopped there, because I knew where David wanted to take this. To my surprise, he agreed, but that night I figured that talking might be beneficial. It pains me to admit it, but things had started to change around me.

So I told him about the time I got raped.

There wasn't really much to talk about. I mean, it's not as if it changes the fact that I was a massive mess beforehand. It was very evident that David knew about this event because he has literally been hinting at it for weeks. Everyone knows, I figure Astrid knows, and I'm also assuming that the entire house knows. It's not exactly an exciting conversation starter-hey guys, let's talk about this horribly traumatic thing that happened to me!

I went out with my friends that night, and there was a feeling that I couldn't put my finger on. I told dad I was going, and he sighed and just replied with "stay safe". He never said much to me because he knew it was completely pointless. I met up with them at 6 pm sharp at a skate park, and it was winter so it was already starting to get dark. Thug had bought beers, Rick had bought some acid. I remember what I was wearing a white shirt that day, and I managed to get a beer down it and stain it. My hair was slicked back, more because I hadn't washed it in three days due to my own laziness and inability to take care of myself. My shoes were holey and I could feel gravel between my toes as I walked through the park. There were just tons of small and insignificant details that I was reminded of whilst I recalled what had happened, probably because I had blocked out the main event.

Thug had bought a new guy with us, a big muscular guy who looked well into his 20's and had dirty teeth. He creeped me out. All night he wouldn't stop staring at me, eyeing me up and down. There was no way I was sleeping with him, I remembered thinking, puffing at my cigarette. Everytime I turned to the conversation, I could see the glint of his eyes in the dim lights. This made me quite anxious over time, so I decided that I would go for a walk. When I went into the woods, the creepy guy decided to follow.

I don't remember much of what happened next at all. I think he must have tried it on with me, and when I refused, he hit me over the head and pinned me to the floor. My skin literally crawls thinking about it, his tousled fingers over my body, ripping my clothes off, kicking me and punching me every time I screamed or made a move. After some time, I must have passed out, as the next thing I remember from the event is being alone, lying naked in the middle of the woods in agony and being completely unable to move.

I was lying in the woods until 5 am, when a dog-walker found me half-dead. My next memory is waking up in a hospital, hooked up with what seemed like a thousand needles and machines. I was hypothermic, had a fractured skull, a broken arm, three broken ribs and a twisted ankle, as well as "injuries consistent with a violent sexual assault", as it was so eloquently put by the doctor. I think it was the first time I had ever seen my dad cry, and yet at the time, I couldn't comprehend the gravity of the situation. I just wanted to get out and mess about again, but this time, I wanted to party harder.

After I had told my story, David just nodded his head slowly and thanked me. "And that", he said "was the trigger that spiraled into your breakdown before you came here". I nodded back, realising the gravity of what he had said. I guess he was right. A repugnant sensation I had never felt before occurred immediately after I was attacked. I was obsessed with revenge and punishing myself for my own slip-up, my own mistake. I was obsessed with perfection. I was obsessed with feeling _something_.

Talking didn't make things go away, but something lifted off my shoulders after I did, something unexplainable. It felt like quite an accomplishment. It wasn't the end of this topic, but it was big. It was a breakthrough, as David put it.

And now, he wants me to talk about Astrid.


	9. Respect

**Yo yo!**

 **So this is going to be the second to last actual story chapter, as this story will have 10 weeks. I'm also planning on doing an epilogue and a section of notes I wrote up regarding Hiccup's headcanon. I know this story could go on longer but here's the thing; if it carried on past here, it would literally never end, and it would get boring and I would get bored. I'm ending it at the next chapter because I'm reaching the point where I have to figure out where to go next. This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter and nobody likes a dead-fic. If there's one thing I have learnt, its decide an ending first. xD.**

 **Thank you again for the reviews and everything! Hope you all had a good week, and enjoy! :)**

Week Nine

I was feeling pretty good about myself for the most of this week until Tuesday happened. Astrid just left. She didn't tell anyone she was getting discharged and apparently didn't want the fuss of us throwing her a party; I just came downstairs to her packing her bags up on the table. She gave me a sad smile, looked around to make sure nobody was around and gave me a kiss on the cheek before thrusting her phone number on a scrap of paper in my hand. It was over. She was gone.

It's stupid. I knew it was coming, she said they were letting her out weeks ago, but I just didn't expect her to leave so soon. She left so triumphantly, hair tied up neatly as she walked away with someone who I assumed was her dad. I just kept wondering why she hadn't told me. Then I thought about David and the counselling and his digging, and paranoia hit me like a train.

He knew that I had a thing for her, he straight up asked me and I straight up hesitated before answering. He made it quite clear relationships weren't allowed, and that my mental health wasn't stable enough to manage one. Or maybe he was just putting words into my mouth. How hard could it be? I might struggle with rejection but I deserve to be loved too. I deserve to have people around me who want the best for me. I deserve to have someone to hold me when I'm down. I miss any kind of physical interaction; as much as I don't like being touched and poked and prodded and beaten up, I want so badly for someone to hold me sometimes. I don't want to feel alone forever.

Astrid leaving made me realise how lonely I felt. David might be the person I speak to every day, and in the past few months I've relived every single distressing moment in my life that I care to remember, but I know that this is just his job, and he goes home to his wife and kids in his nice house. Mother hasn't bothered contacting me, and even though dad calls and our relationship is getting better, he essentially told me under no uncertain terms that I wouldn't be going home when I left here. He said it was something we all needed to sit down with the social worker and discuss. In the opinion of social services and mental health services, apparently, staying at home with dad put me at risk of relapse.

Heather and Dagur have been keeping an eye on me, trying to get me involved in their games and conversations. Nothing feels the same though. On Friday, David pointed out that I looked a little bit down and that I should maybe talk about it, but this was one thing I didn't want to discuss with him again as I felt as if he'd caused her to leave. Am I being irrational? Perhaps I am, but I don't want to take that risk.

I should be happy for her. She's better. She doesn't want to kill herself or starve herself anymore and that's a huge deal. She's going to go home to a family that loves her and to a school where she excels and everything will be hunky dory. She will find loads of new friends, who will be beautiful and popular. She will get the grades she needs because she's bright, and she will go to college and graduate in something complicated. She will be one of the winners of the world. They always push the inspiration thing here, telling us about all the successful people with mental health problems like us, and how we can be successes too. Our lives can be good.

I want to be inspired, and sometimes I feel that it won't be long before I'm out of here and living a new life. A big part of me hopes that it will be fine. I will leave, live somewhere new, go to school again and make friends and be someone. My tutors told me that, since I started having art therapy a few weeks ago, my concentration levels are so much higher, and my anxiety has virtually disappeared. They told me that I was clever, and my work was valued. Maybe when things at school improve and my health is stable, I can live with my dad again and we can get along again too like before. I feel guilty about how I treated my dad.

Another part of me is insidious. It's the part that tells me that my life will be a series of drink, drugs, prostitution, self-harm, mutilation, violence and pain. It's the part that tells me that I'll drop out of school, end up in and out of hospitals, end up on the streets with nobody and I'll die forgotten. The part of my brain tells me that it's the fate I deserve. Negative thoughts are not always easy to rationalise. Maybe it's a warning.

I called Astrid yesterday, and she sounded warm. It was only a short call as I don't have a phone right now, but being able to hear her voice made everything so much better. She told me about how she was going back to school next week, and that she was a bit nervous but looking forward to it. She said that the school had told everyone that she had been away to some kind of boarding school abroad to cover up the fact that she had been held at the clinic. I never thought about what people would say if they knew. It's not the most glamorous of places to be cooped up in. Everyone in my school knows I'm psycho anyway though, so even if I don't come back, my reputation will be there to haunt me forever.

Before I hung up, I asked Astrid if she would come and visit. She told me that it wasn't a good idea and that I needed to focus on getting better. She told me that she was there when I was out of the unit, but for now, I needed to focus on myself. She told me it would get better and to never forget that, and then the receiver went dead. I think after she said that to me, something turned in my brain. I have to make things right and better first.

You can't love someone until you love yourself. And that's exactly what I'm going to start doing.


	10. Memory

**Hi guys!**

 **So this is (technically) the last chapter! This is the epilogue, and what I'm going to publish immediately after are notes I wrote about Hiccup's backstory. It's been quite a journey writing this and has brought back a lot of emotional memories. I'm sorry if anyone feels that the ending is rushed, but as I have said before, I don't want to run this story to the ground and run out of things to write about. I have really started to enjoy writing again and these fics have helped so much. I feel that this ending though leaves enough room in case I feel like writing a sequel...we'll see.**

 **Thank you all again for the reviews and follows, I'm so thankful that people are reading and enjoying my work, and I can't wait to keep writing and get better at it. You are all amazing. 3**

Epilogue

Its been nine months since I wrote my last entry. I stopped doing this journal because I wanted to focus less on wallowing in my own self-pity, and more about living in the now. It's funny reading back at my own experiences from not so long ago, and thinking about how much has changed.

I am leaving tomorrow, and I will be moving in with Gobber, who is a family friend. He is fostering me for a bit until dad is ready to have me home again. The past year has been really difficult for him too, and I have put him through so much hurt. Even though he tells me that it isn't my fault, I accept that I need to take some responsibility for my behaviour. I'm going to a new high school which are apparently good at dealing with people like me, and I'm going to start working in Gobber's garage for a bit too. I think having work to focus on will do me good.

Gobber had me pick out a dog last week. Having a pet can be very therapeutic, or so I'm told. I remembered what Julie said about her dogs, and I picked out the friendliest looking one possible. I think I'm going to call him Toothless, because he has literally four teeth and he likes to squeeze his long tongue through them. He's absolutely hilarious.

The change is going to be hard to deal with. Even though I've gotten much better at coping with my emotions and behaviour, the anxiety hasn't just gone away. I have come to realise how good everyone around me has been in keeping things sane. There's always been a routine and its one I've found myself following to the letter. Going back to high school with different personalities and confrontation around me will be interesting. I've been told to expect bad days, but I know now that it's important to push through it, keep taking my meds, and keep on talking.

I can't believe that, at 16, I've spent half of my life in and out of a crisis. Since being here, I've felt alive for the first time in I don't know how long. Its as if a light bulb just switched on and I can see and rationalise things clearly. I can distinguish between good and bad decisions-well, most of the time anyway. More than anything, though, I want to do well at school and become an art therapist. Even if it means me doing extra grades and working ten times as hard as everyone else, I am determined to make this happen. I want to make my dad proud of me, so he can have a son who will go to college, get a good job and have a normal life. My mental health shouldn't be a barrier for that.

I've been in a bit of contact with my mother, but she still doesn't seem all that interested. But that's okay. We can't all have perfect families. I know now that it wasn't my fault she left, and that I shouldn't blame myself. I carried so much blame before, feeling like I was responsible for everything that went wrong with us. The three of us used to be so close-knit and so happy, but it's different now, and different doesn't always have to be bad.

I've spoken to Astrid every week, and she's doing well. She's in her junior year at school now, and she has ambitious plans for the future. She even came to visit a few weeks ago, although Heather has gone back home now too. My attraction for her has never ended, but I've decided to put those attractions aside to focus on my own health. Now that I'm leaving, though, its something we can explore. She seemed to like the idea of us being close and tells me that I don't realise how much I motivated her to do better. I don't think she realises the effect she had on me.

I'm excited about the future. Absolutely terrified, too, but ready to face it. I have learned so much about myself, and there's so much that I want to teach other people. As long as I have my family and friends in my life, I can get through anything.

My bags are packed and ready. I'm not taking loads, as I'm not a materialistic person, but there'll be my art equipment and this journal. I'm going to put this journal safe somewhere, but I've not decided what I'll do with it yet. I'm thinking maybe putting it in a drawer and when I feel bad I can read. I guess it's a reflection of my deepest and darkest thoughts, at a point where I was at my lowest, and a reminder that I don't want to get to that point again. I could just publish it on the internet and maybe help those in a similar situation.

I know that memories can be painful and difficult to manage. But they're just memories, and they should serve as lessons. My memories are still all over the place, but I don't find myself repressing bad experiences anymore. I feel that things happen for a reason and that we should handle these events in the best way possible, even though they hurt sometimes and can kick us in the face when we're down.

It's just a memory.


	11. Notes From the Social Worker

**As mentioned before, just notes on Hiccup's backstory when writing this. Very OOC and headcanon of course.**

Appendix: Notes from the social worker.

 _The person in question, who will be referred simply as H in these notes, has been admitted to Graceland House, a residential rehabilitation unit for adolescents with emotional and behavioural difficulties. This referral was done on the request of H's father, S, who has found increasing difficulty in caring for his son. It is hoped that H will be able to return home and to school once his mental health is in a stable condition, but foster placements may have to be considered dependant on S's parenting ability and the home situation once his health is stable._

 _Mental Health History_

 _H has had a long and intensive history with mental health services. He was born a month prematurely and, despite reaching milestones fairly late, he had no significant impairments that were noticeable in early childhood. When starting school, teachers noticed that he was shy and quite clingy, and often difficult to console when upset. However, he soon settled and worked normally for his age, and seemed to be relatively happy._

 _Concerns were raised when H started experiencing drastic changes in his behaviour following the divorce of his parents aged eight. He was referred for counselling and anger management within eight months after this event. The divorce was very traumatic for H and he had a great deal of difficulty adjusting. He was suspended twice in this period due to fighting in school, became increasingly withdrawn in classes and refused to participate, and teachers expressed concern that H's grades were dropping. H was diagnosed with major depressive disorder aged nine after a referral to child and adolescent mental health services. Educational psychologists also considered whether the adjustment and behavioural problems were attributed to undiagnosed autistic spectrum disorder or attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, but this was not investigated, and H was found to have no specific learning difficulties and an above average intelligence quotient._

 _Despite counselling interventions, the negative behaviour persisted and were increased after H's mother V decided to move away. It was decided that a course of fluoxetine would be administered to stabilise H's mood. These anti-depressants marked an improvement and he was able to continue with school. His school work improved in quality; however, he became a victim to bullies within his school and was suspended again after running away. It was decided by S that he would attend a new school, which he struggled again to adjust to._

 _H began having panic attacks and began truanting school. He described school as "a prison" and had major difficulty attending. Psychiatrists diagnosed him with generalised anxiety disorder and panic disorder and he began a course of citalopram as the fluoxetine had become somewhat ineffective. H was able to attend school in a one-to-one setting, but the educational system did not find his needs severe enough for this support and he was expected to attend classes with his peers. As well as close monitoring of his medication, H attended psychotherapy and adopted CBT methodology. Whilst in therapy, concerns were raised about possible suicidal ideation, and H stating he felt "useless", "unable to hold it together" and "like I'm going to kill myself"._

 _During this period, H almost completely dropped out of school, causing many difficulties for S. H also began abusing substances, although exactly what is unsure. It was determined that he had got involved with a local gang who supplied with paraphernalia. Although H understands the implications of this, he states he takes them as "it keeps him together". H also started displaying risky sexual behaviour. An extremely traumatic incident occurred when he was raped and beaten aged fourteen and hospitalised for three days. H became extremely hostile, aggressive and emotional after this event and was subsequently diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. A diagnosis of borderline personality disorder was considered but deemed inappropriate due to his age._

 _In the weeks before being admitted to the unit, H was completely unable to attend school and was self-harming, having overdosed on citalopram, burning himself with cigarettes and climbing up onto a bridge and threatening to kill himself. It was decided that the homelier aspect of the unit would be better for H than a psychiatric ward due to his difficulty adjusting to change. He was admitted on the basis that he would be there for at least three months and only discharged when he was stable._

 _Personality and Behaviours_

 _H is a bright, articulate and generally pleasant young man who, provided he keeps his mental health stable, would have no trouble accessing the community and leading a full life. He has a very dry sense of humour and is a talented artist and writer, having written several poetry pieces online that have received praise. H's creativity could be fostered in a positive way with some intervention from specific support services, and an art therapist is recommended in this case as a viable way of maintaining communication, as well as honing his creative talents._

 _H is ultimately very good natured and will help those in need around him. He is a keen debater and is very strong on what is happening around the world. H has strong opinions on topics such as politics and war and feels that there should be no need for conflict. He seems very passionate when he talks about topics that interest him and seems to be a good listener. H shows potential leadership skills that can be honed positively in the right environment._

 _H enjoys going out for walks and spending time alone. For his own safety, he will be unable to spend long periods unsupervised, but it should be acknowledged that not giving him his own space may aggravate H, and he may need to spend some time by himself after a panic attack or meltdown to "collect his thoughts". Walks should be encouraged along with any exercise, as maintaining a healthy lifestyle is of great importance._

 _If he is upset or frustrated, H may become extremely sarcastic in his manner of tone, which can often upset those he is confronted with. This kind of reaction can make the situation worse, and he will require a calm demeanour to keep the situation from escalating. It is important to remember that he uses this humour as a coping mechanism, rather than to deliberately provoke or upset anyone._

 _H's behaviour will often be varied, although it is hoped that a new course of medication will stabilise his mood and allow him to function in a more predictable manner. On a good day, he will seem like a very ordinary teenage boy, if a bit quirky, and it is likely that he will engage in conversation and enjoy the company around him. He is able to articulate his feelings and, although shy, will get himself involved in activities and school work with some prompting. On a bad day, H will be unable to get himself out of his bed, will be unable to attend to any personal care needs and can often become very physically challenging. He will refuse to leave the house, eat or drink, and will find it very difficult to engage in any kind of activity. The bad days recently have greatly outweighed the good ones and has caused an extremely tense relationship with his father, who feels completely overwhelmed and unable to cope with his son's mood swings._

 _Educational History_

 _H has found remaining in education very difficult, both due to his anxiety within school and because of his difficulty with adjusting to change. H would currently be attending grade 10 classes but started displaying emotional and behavioural difficulties in grade 4 and struggled with poor attendance from grade 5 onwards. H has only attended his high school 12% of the time he has been a student there and has failed as a result to develop any kind of meaningful relationship with any of the staff or students._

 _It is very evident that H is bright and finds the work itself somewhat easy. However, due to missing so much education, it is recommended that he is held back to the start of high school once he hopefully returns. H has been given two Intelligence Quotient tests by two separate educational psychologists, where he performed above average. Both tests evidenced that H was particularly adept with perceptual reasoning and logical thinking. In further comprehension tests given by the educational psychologists to rule out any specific learning difficulties, H scored highly on the mathematical based questions, and did well on reading and comprehension questions. Academically, there is no reason why he would not be able to graduate high school with good grades, so long as he has the right support system in place._

 _However, despite his academic abilities, it is recommended that H does not return to a conventional school setting as there is concerns about his ability to cope in the environment. If he returns to the same setting, H's mental health will almost certainly deteriorate, and he will be unfit for any kind of education. At least initially, H will ideally need to be home schooled. Failing that, he will need to either attend an alternative school specialising with EBD or attend a regular high school but in a supported setting. H would benefit from a one-to-one teaching environment initially, before slowly establishing relationships with his peers and being able to return to a classroom and learn amongst others. He would also benefit from having rest breaks and somewhere to go if his anxiety becomes too much to handle._


End file.
